


Aziraphale's Lover: A Beadle Dime Novel

by kaijuvenom



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Human, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Based Off Of A Dime Novel From The 1880's, Body insecurity, Boston Specifically, But You Can Assume They Got Together, Crossdressing, Except It's Gay And I Toned Down The Explicit Sex, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance Novelist Crowley, takes place in America
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 07:57:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20170846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijuvenom/pseuds/kaijuvenom
Summary: Anthony J. Crowley is not a name that holds much weight in intellectual conversations among avid readers and authors, but his books, mass produced and sold by the thousands for only a dime each, are windows into worlds that poor children could never have otherwise hoped to see.If only that was the way adults looked at his writing. Instead, his writing was described as sinful and detestable, scandalous and putting horrible ideas about romance and violence into children's heads, but he doesn't mind. He enjoys the relative anonymity he has, especially when he comes across Aziraphale, a book reviewer who's had some choice words to say about Crowley's writing in the past.





	Aziraphale's Lover: A Beadle Dime Novel

**Author's Note:**

> If you've never read a dime novel from the late 1800's, you've truly missed out on classic literature and that's all I have to say here.
> 
> Oh, also I researched every gottdamn fact I have in here about Boston and dime novels and Crowley's skin condition and the culture and everything, and I had sO much fun. Anyway I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

_Although the final word had been said, the last look taken, and my belongings all stowed in the narrow room, which was, for some time, to be my home, I couldn’t help the inexplicable sadness that washed over me. I stood at the starboard railing, gazing back on the beloved city I was leaving, and, despite the stoicism I had displayed whilst bidding farewell to my friends, I could no longer prevent a tear. Nor did my messmates seem in any more of a sportive mood; they were, some in the rigging and some leaning over the ship’s side, staring after the well-known landmarks of the town with a silence which betokened the thoughts passing through us all. _

Crowley leaned against his leather wingback chair, his cup of tea cooling on his rolltop desk. He watched the paper in the typewriter, as if by simply staring at it, the words would appear. The words did not appear, and there was no sound to be heard but the light rustling of his discarded first drafts as they moved in the breeze brought in by the open window. 

He gave a small sigh, standing up and taking his veil and shawl off the hook on the wall, placing the veil carefully over the left half of his face, looking in the hall mirror to pin it in place, before he put his shawl on, tying it around his thumb to keep it securely covering his arm. Maybe a walk would be nice, a way to clear his head. 

It was a rather warm day in spring, and if he wasn’t cursed with the condition he was, the shawl and veil would have been nowhere in sight. With a start, he was reminded of it immediately, and looked down. He had forgotten his gloves. his hand was the least affected area by a significant amount, so it wasn’t the worst possible scenario, but the black markings speckled across his wrist and up to his ring and pinky finger leapt out against his pale skin like a rabid animal at a riding traveler. He held it to his chest, covering it with his right hand, as he had now walked too far to go back without accomplishing anything, and this could give his an excuse to buy a new pair of gloves. 

His heeled boots clicked against the bumpy asphalt, making a pleasant sound, and his light green summer dress flowed in the breeze. He often refused to wear what most would consider ‘men’s clothes’, for a myriad of reasons. Namely because skirts were elegant and far prettier, and because they were cooler and more comfortable.

On his walk down Court Street, of course he had to enter the Oriental Tea Company shop, easily visible by the giant three-dimensional replica of a teapot hanging from the building that had been installed only a year or two ago. It had been quite an event, a triumph of modern technology, when it was completed, as the teapot ‘steamed’, meaning inside of it, it was essentially a stove, and smoke exited from the spout, giving off the idea of steam. 

The teapot itself was not Crowley’s reasoning for enjoying the place so much, it was the interior. The gas lamps hanging from the ceiling barely illuminated the windowless building, but the intricacy, the gold and red details, Asian-inspired dragons painted on the walls, gold castings of them, was what made it so beautiful. The building itself was laid out as if it were a bar, serving only freshly brewed tea. One could sit at the counter, letting the smell of earl grey and jasmine infect their brain, leaving them content and relaxed. At least, that’s what Crowley hoped to accomplish by going there, as it traditionally wound up working for him. 

The place was nearly empty, save for a few people scattered across the bar in a manner that was particularly annoying as it would cause him to have to sit next to one person, every patron two seats away from the other, with eight seats in all, three taken. 

He sat next to the man at the end of the far right side of the bar, because he looked to be the least sociable. His nose was buried in a book, and he seemed incredibly disgusted by it. Crowley knew the feeling well. He took his time meticulously adjusting his veil, hiding his hand under the counter, turning his head the exact angle that was appropriate for seeing the man, but not letting him see too much of Crowley. 

The man in question was wearing a white long sleeved shirt under a tan vest, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows. A top hat sat on the counter in front of him, a wool coat draped over the back of his chair. His white and pastel blue bow tie was the only even _slight _fashion statement he seemed to have decided to make. Despite his lack of fashion, he was oddly beautiful, with light wavy hair, and a stuffy librarian type of aura about him. Nothing at all like the men he wrote about in his romance novels, but somehow _so _much better.

Well, at that point, he made his decision, that this man was going to be coming home with him. Although, he’d have to get to know him a bit before he allowed that.

A bit of insecurity washed over him, and he pushed it down, covering it with his trademark charm, his web of deception he tangled everyone in without remorse. He was certainly not going to let himself get washed away by self doubt, caring about what others thought of him would only serve to drag him further under the murky water that the rest of society was surrounded by. 

This man certainly didn’t seem as if he were about to speak, even though Crowley was very interested in beginning a conversation. He had just made a disappointed _tutting _sound, closing the book but leaving his finger in it to keep his place, as he picked up a pen and wrote something likely very nasty on a small pad of paper. 

Once he’d set the pen down but had yet to reopen the book, Crowley spoke, having thought about the ideal moment to do so this entire time, intricately planning out the conversation for whichever way it may possibly go. 

“You wouldn’t happen to be a reviewer, would you?”

The man finally looked up, as if just noticing Crowley were there. He straightened, adjusting his tie, giving off the pompous energy that only someone born into high society and old money and believed they were smarter than everyone else gave off. Despite Crowley’s usual abhorrence to those sorts of people, he still found this stranger ridiculously attractive. 

“Actually, I am. As well as an author.” Crowley held out his hand to him, and he took it, shaking it lightly. At least he had some semblance of manners. 

“An author?” Crowley pitched his voice up a bit more at that, initiating a questioning, _please, tell me more_ tone of voice without having to say so.

He nodded, and Crowley covered a small smile at how pleased he looked to discuss it. “I’ve written primarily nonfiction, although I have dabbled in fiction. It is a slippery slope, one tends to fall into the bottom rung dime novels if one isn’t too careful while writing fiction.” 

Crowley bit his lip, but turned his ugly retort into a graceful one. “Oh really? And how do you avoid the tone of a dime novel in your writing?” 

“For someone as intellectually gifted as myself, I must say it is rather easy. You see, it isn’t hard for someone of my intellect to find pleasure in reading and writing that doesn’t involve the sexual deviancy and bloodshed of those… books. If they can even be called such.”

“And yet they continue to be so _much _more successful than most other literature nowadays.” Crowley clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “What _is _society coming to?” Despite this man’s hatred for dime novels and ‘sexual deviancy’, Crowley was confident in his ability to turn his beliefs in a complete 180, and he could hold him to that belief. 

“Certainly not something I care to be a part of, mister...?” He raised an eyebrow, waiting for his to continue his question with an answer. 

“Anthony J. Crowley. Although you can call me Crowley, as long as you tell me your name.” He tilted his head, still smiling softly, amicably, rather enjoying the way he could play with him like this, make him believe he was hanging off his every word. 

“Aziraphale. It is a pleasure to meet you.” 

Aziraphale. He knew that name. Of course he did, how could he _not _recognize it? He was the scourge of Crowley’s existence. Aziraphale read his books, and Crowley even had a little newspaper clipping from about a year ago of what he’d thought of one of them. Aziraphale believed the “sexual purity” of young individuals became corrupted by reading Crowley’s novels, and that they “sowed the seeds of lust”. Although, his absolute favorite quote from Aziraphale was that his writing “turns away from lofty aims to instead follow examples of corruption and criminality”. 

Crowley’s response had been in the form of a forward in his next book, a “note to the reviewer”, in which he thanked Aziraphale for purchasing his book, as well as bringing it further into the public eye. It would benefit his future writings. Crowley then apologized to him for showing his readers “new worlds, exciting foreign landscapes, and the thrill of rooting for distinctly amoral characters.” Aziraphale hadn’t answered, unfortunately. 

“Mister Crowley?”

He was far too lost in his own thoughts to realize he was being spoken to, and he wasn’t able to answer in time. 

Aziraphale’s voice saying his name again brought Crowley back to the present situation instantly. “Apologies. I seem to have gone somewhere else.”

“Oh, how rude of me, you’ve been sitting here all this time, and you have yet to have a cup of tea. Allow me to remedy that.” Aziraphale turned forwards, flagging down a member of the staff and ordering Crowley a cup of tea, not bothering to ask him what he’d like, because that’s not what gentlemen do. Crowley knew that, because he’d been trained that way throughout his entire childhood, and he rolled his eyes, but didn’t really mind, in all honesty. The whole gentleman thing had never appealed to him, but it was a nice look on Aziraphale. But either way, Crowley could see under his facade, he was smart, and not only because of his education, because he was uncomfortable. He found something off with the way he was taught to treat others, anyone considered ‘below’ him, and Crowley could guarantee, one hundred percent, that if he investigated Aziraphale’s house, he found a hidden stash of those sexually deviant novels he allegedly hated so much. 

“Such a gentleman,” he murmured, a bit belatedly, although Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice. 

“I would be nothing less to a young man such as yourself.” Aziraphale said the words sincerely, and he looked at his, as if he really meant it, and he smiled brightly.

Aziraphale was staring at him, now. Crowley hadn’t noticed, but he did after a minute, but his veil had slipped a bit, revealing the black markings on one side of his face, specifically the slightly bumpy marks along his forehead. 

“Something wrong?” Crowley asked, tilting his head at Aziraphale in confusion.

Aziraphale blinked, looking away. “No, nothing at all. I was-” he wasn’t moving away from Crowley, he wasn’t disgusted by the marks, as most were, simply intrigued. “You are a very enthralling man, Crowley. Something about you… makes me wish I knew you more.” 

“Didn’t you know that curiosity is the lust of the mind?” Crowley responded, a little twinkle in his eye. 

Aziraphale moved a bit closer, his hand just inches from Crowley’s. “Don’t be naive. Lust is the lust of the mind.” He took his cup of tea, blowing on it gently. The steam slowly seeping up, covering the lenses of his reading glasses. 

A soft hand reached up, removing his glasses for him. Crowley wiped them gently on his shawl before placing them back on the bridge of Aziraphale’s nose. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Without lust, I’m sad to say that neither of us would be here.” 

“And nothing would exist without curiosity,” Aziraphale countered. His lips touched the edge of his cup, but he didn’t drink. He set it back down, and the clink it made against the saucer made Crowley jump. The moment was shattered, and he shifted away, eyelashes fluttering as he blinked away the dust that had settled over the conversation. 

They sat in silence, the only words spoken for the next ten or so minutes being Crowley thanking the waiter for his tea. 

“Speaking of curiosity…” Aziraphale began, looking at Crowley over his teacup, “you are quite intriguing. Why do you wear that veil?”

Crowley brought a hand up to his face on instinct, and he wasn’t thinking, it was his left hand, the one with the marks. Aziraphale gasped, and Crowley closed his eyes, ready for the disgust, the curses, the whatever else he would always get when someone spotted his condition. But he got none of that. Instead, Aziraphale took his hand and stared at it, running his fingers across the bumpy, blackened, skin. 

“What is it?” he asked softly. 

Crowley stared at him, watching and letting him touch his hand. “Unilateral Ichthyosis,” he said, matching Aziraphale’s quiet tone. “I was born with it. It isn’t contagious, it won’t spread any more, but it will never go away. I’ll… I’ll be the one to leave, now. You were sitting here before me.” He made to get up, pulling away from Aziraphale, but Aziraphale held on tight to his hand, then looked up at Crowley’s face. He was used to the reactions, everyone wanted to get away from his as fast as possible, once he’d even met a man who had tried to exorcise him, so this was odd. 

“It’s beautiful.”

Crowley scoffed, standing up, Aziraphale still holding his arm, and he didn’t try to pull it away again. “Don’t patronize me. You just want me to take off my veil so you can gawk at me.”

“Perhaps. But gawk is rather strong, I would go with… stare at in wonder. Admire, be mesmerized by, but not gawk.”

Crowley opened his mouth to say something, but instead of words, he took a light breath and stepped forward, his fingers intertwining with Aziraphale’s. Crowley moved between his legs, his free hand reaching up and pushing his own veil aside, tucking it behind his ear.

“You’re… gorgeous,” Aziraphale whispered. He was staring at Crowley, his eyes filled with curiosity, and something else, something that made Crowley’s heart flutter just a little bit in his chest. All the thoughts of Aziraphale’s arrogance slipped away, because _this, _this was the real Aziraphale, and he could tell. Crowley stepped forward again, closing the distance between them. 

Aziraphale’s lips were soft, softer than his own, and he was _so _warm, Crowley let out a quiet sound against his mouth, before he stepped back again, this time pulling Aziraphale with him. Crowley flipped his veil back across his face and tugged him to the door. 

“Come walk with me. I live close by.”

Aziraphale didn’t need to be told twice, he paid the tea shop quickly and followed Crowley to the door, and still staring at him, not gawking, but staring in wonder, as he’d promised. 

Unsure why that made him uncomfortable, Crowley chose to ignore it. It was nice to be stared at in admiration rather than disgust, simply surprising. He gripped Aziraphale’s hand, holding him close to his as if someone might come and steal him away like a purse in a dark alleyway. They walked inside to Crowley’s house, and he unlocked the door for Aziraphale, letting him enter first, before softly closing the door behind them.

“You have a very nice home. Do you live with anyone?” Aziraphale took off his hat and coat, hanging them on the coat rack. 

“No one but the dust,” he responded, taking Aziraphale’s hand in his again as he removed his veil completely with his other hand. “Come to the sitting room. It’ll be easier there.”

As he led Aziraphale through the house and down the hall into a bright, naturally lit room with an overstuffed loveseat and a baby grand piano, Aziraphale knit his eyebrows. “What’ll be easier?” 

“You’ll be able to see me. You wanted to, didn’t you?” 

Aziraphale blinked, as if he didn’t quite understand. “What do you mean by-”

“I mean exactly what I said. What parts of me would you like to see?” Crowley was watching him, and his thumb traveled across Aziraphale’s knuckles and then back again. 

“I-” Aziraphale looked for half a second as if he was about to answer, but he didn’t. He simply stared at Crowley, before he blinked and pulled his hand away from Crowley’s, backing up one step. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here like this. This isn’t…”

Crowley smiled softly, stepping forward as he stepped back. “This isn’t what, Aziraphale? It isn’t how you were raised? Do you think I’m a whore? I won’t make you pay.”

“I don’t understand.” Aziraphale stepped back over to him, frown reappearing and the lines on his forehead creasing. “Why did you invite me here like this?”

“Because I like you, Aziraphale. You seem so tense, so strict. Let yourself relax, why don’t you?” He took his hand again, trailing his hand up his arm to his elbow, quirking an eyebrow as he moved even closer to him.

Aziraphale didn’t move away again, instead he moved closer, their faces almost touching. He looked down, his eyes fluttering across Crowley’s neck and down his flowing, soft looking dress, before he looked back up, staring at his nose to avoid his eyes.

“Would you like to kiss me again, Aziraphale? You can say. There’s no shame in wanting something.”

“I- I would. I would like to kiss you, if you’ll let me,” he finally admitted, a dark blush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck, behind his ears, and Crowley found it exquisite, breathtaking, even.

“Well, go on then,” Crowley whispered, stepping close enough that their noses touched, before Aziraphale tilted his head a little, took a soft, quiet breath of air, and kissed him for the second time. It was just as wonderful as the first, he was still freezing cold, one half of his lips oddly textured, unusual, and absolutely perfect.

He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he just settled them on Crowley’s waist, holding him tightly. 

“So pretty,” Crowley murmured as they pulled away from each other. “Soft and sweet, like an angel.” 

Aziraphale’s face was red, and his hands were shaking, this was so new, and so scary, and he felt like he shouldn’t like it, but he _did, _and it all felt so much better than anything he’d ever experienced before, and he wanted to do it again and again, to stay in Crowley’s arms on his overstuffed couch, blinking sleepily at the dust that flew through the sunbeams coming in from the dirty windows. But he couldn’t stay, no matter how much he wanted to, and he eventually pulled himself away from Crowley with one final, sweet kiss, and collected his clothes that had been discarded on the floor beneath them before slipping out the door with a soft goodbye. 

The door shut, and Crowley stood, throwing on a dark red dressing gown and nothing else as he stood and made his way to the door, clicking the lock, before leaning with his back against it, sighing. 

Apparently spontaneous romances were a good way to get one’s mind running again, because Crowley’s typewriter was in use well into the night and early hours of the morning. 

_Despite all troubles I have had, I would prefer to live it all again than to ever go back to the way my life once was. An arranged marriage and pleasant life managing the family farm would never suit me. I have decided I will be continuing to travel the world with the man I met on this innocent whaling voyage, as we have something together I could find nowhere else. I hope not for a prediction or expectation of the future, save for one thing; I hope more adventures with him are to come. _

**Author's Note:**

> Twitter: @kaijuvenom


End file.
